


A Sword Worthy of a King

by reges_criniti



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Fate & Destiny, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, post-episode, the Great Merlin Re-Watch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 03:43:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6036598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reges_criniti/pseuds/reges_criniti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all the dragon's talk to destiny, he did not know what it truly meant until this moment, the sword alive and singing in his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sword Worthy of a King

**Author's Note:**

> Post 1x09- Excalibur

Arthur rages like a tempest out at sea.

The king's stern upbringing means that the prince rarely indulges in fits and tantrums. He's become skilled at schooling his emotions, barricading them behind a stone fortress he's constructed deep within himself. But those rare times when he lets that wall crack and leak, it is a sight awesome to behold.

He throws plates and silver cups like an upset child, relishes in their rattle as they crash to the ground and make a satisfying din on the stone floors, a discordant soundtrack to accompany his anger, his misery. He takes his sword to the crimson banners draped on his walls, stabbing, tearing at the golden dragon, a feeble scapegoat for all the things he can not do to his father, to the cursed black knight.

His tour of destruction is accompanied by a visceral, raw war cry, loud and unending, ripped from his body in remembrance, in mourning for the men he has lost. He will carry Sir Owain's and Sir Pellinore's names like scars on his heavy heart.

Merlin can hear it all, every cry and crash and clatter while he's still paces away from Arthur's shuttered chambers, but even still that does not prepare him for what lies on the other side of the door when he pulls it open. He pauses in the threshold, for the first time unsure how to approach his prince. He settles instead for making himself as small as possible, waiting out the turbulent storm of Arthur's sorrow.

It could be mere moments, could be minutes, but it feels like an eternity until Arthur's body stills, shoulder sagging under both a physical and emotional strain. Merlin notes the change in his demeanor as he slowly comes to himself. Arthur's breath is ragged, his heart pounds, and feels within his chest an empty echo where before a cyclone of pain boiled. When he turns to find Merlin, his face etched in worry, it's then that he registers all that he has done, all that he has destroyed.

He's been taught that someone in his station never needs to apologize for his actions; even so, he fights the embarrassment that crawls up his neck as he stands amid the debris of his outburst. He stares blankly ahead, shoulder squared, as if daring the other man to make mention of the scene he's just caused. Eventually, as he predicts, Merlin is the first to speak.

"Arthur, please, pull out of the fight," Merlin begs, his only desire to protect his prince, his friend. "He'll kill you!"

Arthur barks cruel laugh, tightens the grip he has on his sword. "Do you have so little faith in me?"

"No," Merlin is quick to correct, taking a step towards Arthur. "Of course not. But that knight- Arthur you know the truth for yourself. He does not eat, he does not sleep, he just stands there, keeping guard. Owain and Pellinore both landed solid blows and yet he still stands! He is no ordinary knight!"

"I am no coward, Merlin!"

"I know," Merlin soothes, reaching out as if approaching a skittish colt, laying a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "I know. I've stood by your side and watched you overcome every fear you've ever faced and I have no doubt you will continue to do so."

"Well, that's what's required of me," Arthur pans, inspecting his sword in the flickering candle light. "I'm not backing down."

"Please Arthur-"

"I'm not listening to this!" he snaps, "Especially not from you!"

A cruel fire is burning in Arthur's eyes and Merlin flinches away, braces for the volley of harsh words that are sure to be tossed his way. "What do you know of bravery, Merlin? What do you know of defending honor, living by a higher code? My father could not dissuade me and neither will you!"

Merlin steels himself because he will not be daunted, not in this. Not when he knows more than Arthur, knows how close the prince is to meeting his death. "I'm trying to warn you Arthur!"

The blade slices through the air silent and deadly, pulling up short to quiver at Merlin's neck. Merlin's heart jumps in his throat and he struggles to control his breathing as his pulse flutters like a butterfly's wings, drawing his neck dangerously close to the deathly sharp edge.

The silence between the stretches and expands, neither backing down until Arthur's resolve cracks, the phantom of his responsibilities, his duty, his destiny weighting him down, suffocating him. He slowly lowers his sword, holding it limp at his side, no longer able to keep emotions in check. Merlin shuffles forward, watches the tears silently run down Arthur's stony face and Merlin breaks then too, feels his heart crumble and he knows that this, this desire to always shelter and protect this other man will be the death of him someday. He runs his fingers along Arthur's fevered brow, his flushed cheeks, across his weary shoulders, pressing promises, fidelity in to the prince's skin before stopping, a hand over Arthur's heart, feeling it beat a frantic tattoo in his chest.

"I will not let you die," he vows. Now not. Not ever.

It's not a hard decision then, with Arthur's wrecked look still fresh in Merlin's mind, to descend the now familiar stairs to the lowest dungeons. He pays Kilgharrah's warnings no mind, knows he would stop at nothing, would give up everything and promise anything to ensure that his prince lives to see another day, another fight.

As the dragon's fire dies filling the air with an acrid tang, the sword still suspended in midair tantalizingly out of reach, Merlin's magic goes awry, thrums in harmony with the newly burnished blade. His magic feels alight and alive within him and he has to hold back, keep himself from rushing he cave's ledge to take up the sword. When at last Kilgarrah returns it to Merlin's feet, the young warlock takes up the sword with trembling hands and is surprised to find it still warm from the dragon's fire. Even in the dull light of the cave, it shines with an unnatural radiance. Once a fine sword, it is now exquisite. The leather of the grip is soft and supple in his hand, the fuller resplendent with in-laid gold, the light from his torch throwing shadows that dance along the etchings crafted there.

It is no longer merely a sword, no longer simply a refined piece of steel to be wielded by would-be warriors or self-indulgent knights. It's very foundation, Merlin can tell, has been changed too. Here now, in his hands, a sword shaped and borne again by the old magic, a magic deeper and stronger than even that which Merlin possesses. It is, he intrinsically knows, a sword worthy of a king.

One word, one thought echos distantly, grows stronger, louder, until it's a chorus inside of Merlin's head.

_Excalibur._

The name resonates, feels like a puzzle piece falling in place and something wells inside of Merlin then, something unwieldy and unspeakable, something bigger than himself. For all the dragon's talk to destiny, he did not know what it truly meant until this moment, the sword alive and singing in his hands. He catches glimpses of it then, of his destiny and the Camelot he is supposed to help create: sees a land verdant and rich, a land secure and safe. A land where magic is known and embraced, where the ground thrums with it, the breeze dances with it.

He sees Arthur too, awash in golden sunlight and he feels Camelot sing for her prince. But, no, perhaps a prince no longer? Older, it seems, his boyish features gone, refined and called in to sharper lines, smoother planes. Merlin feels the fate of a kingdom pressing upon his broad shoulders as he kneels in front of an empty throne, a crown, larger and weightier than that of his newly bestowed circlet, upon his golden head

A beat, a flash, images blurring in swirls of colors across his vision before settling, calling into focus a clearing in the woods, dappled sunlight glinting off a pommel- no, not just any pommel, Merlin sees, but the very same one currently gripped tight in his hands. A gathered crowd, nameless faces, a dozen knights draped in Pendragon red, waiting, expectant. A shift, Arthur, hand upon a hilt locked in stone, a surge of magic, a scrap of steel against metal, this gift forged by the great dragon aloft and raised in salute, in promise, in oath.

Here, at last, Albion, come to crown her king.

_Long live the king!_

His vision bursts in a blaze of color and light, his magic burning and twisting within him like a wildfire. His magic is a riot and he feels it's limitless joy, feels like he's a pot about to boil over, feels drunk with this unnamable emotion.

But it all goes horribly wrong, caught up in the maelstrom of Uther's might and will. Merlin can barely stand to watch as the king stares down the black knight. Not for fear or worry over his monarch's life, but because something twists in his gut, something feels wrong watching Uther wield the magical sword meant for Arthur's hand and Arthur's alone.

When the deed is done, with Camelot's prosperity ensured for another day, with Arthur safe and alive within her walls, Merlin doesn't second guess the Great Dragon's rage or warnings to dispose of the sword, wastes no second in bundling it up and secreting it out of the castle. It feels as if it has been tainted somehow and his magic churns, roils, unsettled by this turn in events.

He doesn't know what draws him to this place, doesn't think about his decision at all; rather, as strange as it seems he lets the sword guide him here to this rocky lake bed. Everything stills and slows as he casts the sword far out in to the muddy waters. He knows, feels the moment its pommel touches the lake bed, magic booming out like a shock wave that resonates to his very core. He feels his magic settle then too and he laughs with relief.

As he stands and watches the ripples peter out across the water, Merlin swears he can feel the gears of some great machine resetting, picking up at the moment before things got muddled and confused. As he turns from standing sentry at the lake's edge, he swears it feels like taking the first steps towards some predetermined future, feels like he's merely acting out a role in a story already cast. 

He smiles, accepts it gladly. Because this feeling, whatever it is, he thinks it feels a little like destiny.


End file.
